Some Like It Lethal (27 page)

Lee laughed. "You think he's going to put us both out of our jobs? Just in time for Christmas?"

"I know you don't have anything to worry about."

Lee snapped my picture just for fun and smiled. "Neither do you, Nora."

Our next stop was a wine tasting, thrown by a law firm, at a very pricey French restaurant. They had thinly disguised their office party as a benefit for abused spouses. As soon as we stepped through the double doors, I heard the cool bebop of jazz musicians having a great time. The scent of wonderful food wafted with the fragrances of many expensive perfumes.

Guests had already seized glasses of wine and were flowing in clusters. I recognized a handsome former governor, two Philadelphia television personalities, a wacky artist who built erotic sculptures out of recycled plastic bottles and a Hollywood actor no doubt home to visit his parents and serendipitously making the scene. I gauged the party in an instant, and knew I'd walked into another very successful Delilah Fairweather event.

Sure enough, the crowd parted in time for me to
catch a glimpse of Delilah, cooing sweet nothings into the ear of the only annoyed guest in the restaurant. She patted his arm consolingly and headed in my direction through the crowd.

"Shoot me now," Delilah commanded, already pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her red satin suit. "One pissed-off guest can ruin the whole night."

"Delilah, isn't that your dad?"

"Yes, and he's fussing that I didn't order ribs. Barbecued ribs, for crying out loud! I've got the city's foremost French chef busting his balls in the kitchen, and my old man wants soul food. I should send him to the nearest pretzel cart. Give us a kiss, honey."

I did. "This party looks great."

"I'm redeeming myself after the Boarman fiasco." She checked her cell phone for messages. "Did you hear we had a rat attack one of the children? I'm never using that hotel again."

"Uhm, how awful."

"No harm done." Delilah didn't notice my embarrassment. "Turns out the kid has a history of bad behavior and the hotel admits it's had a rodent problem since they opened. Listen, I have your dress. The one from the prom party. It's in a box at the coat check."

"Thanks. I'll get it on my way out. I'm here for the newspaper. Can we grab a photo and hit the road? I have another stop to make."

"Me, too. I'm only staying here long enough to— Damn, I've got to take this call. Hysterical caterer. Do you mind?"

While Delilah plugged one ear and listened to her caterer with the other, I rounded up some of the celebrities and ferreted the chef from the kitchen to pose in front of a display of spectacular food and wine bottles. I jollied everyone into interacting. The actor was
especially gracious and even put his arm around Delilah's grumpy father to coax him out of his very un-holiday spirit. Delilah came over and convinced the former governor to also lend his face for the good cause, and Lee snapped a dozen pictures in no time. Soon Delilah's father was laughing with a lovely young television news anchor.

"You're a godsend," Delilah told me.

"Your party is terrific," I assured her. "You're still the best in the city. Kitty will be sorry she didn't stop in."

"I'd much rather have you. Where is Kitty tonight?"

"An A-list shindig, I'm sure. I'm strictly the junior varsity team."

"Which one of you will attend Rush Strawcutter's funeral?"

"Has it been scheduled yet?"

Delilah nodded. "I heard it's going to be Thursday. A friend of mine was asked about doing the food afterward, but get this: the family said she was too expensive. I think they're going to get takeout from Kentucky Fried Chicken."

I knew she was kidding. "I'll probably attend. But Kitty may decide to go, too."

"Are you still going to the ballet gala on Friday?"

"Wouldn't miss it." I smiled. "What are you going to wear?"

"I bought just the thing in Bermuda last summer, believe it or not, and it only cost me fifty bucks, but don't tell a soul. Remember how I said somebody wants to buy your dress? Well, she called me again."

"Delilah, that dress is so old and fragile, it will fall apart if someone tries to wear it. It's better suited to a mannequin."

"That's what I told her, but she insists she wants it."

"Anybody I know?"

"Claudine Paltron, the one who wants everything she sees. She thinks it's just the right dress for her to make a triumphant entrance at the gala. I told her I thought you'd never part with it, but she phoned me again this evening."

"I can't sell that dress. It belonged to my grandmother."

"She's willing to pay big bucks, honey."

I was afraid to ask how much.

Delilah saw the conflict in my face and put her arm around me. "Don't worry. I won't give her your number. Unless you want me to?"

Her cell phone trilled, and she made an always-working shrug before she took the call. I used the moment to grab a plate of savory treats from the buffet, then went to the coat check and picked up the oblong box with my grandmother's Mainbocher inside. Lee helped me carry everything to the car.

I shared the food with Reed, who seemed unimpressed by French cuisine. He drove us across town to a hotel where another party was just getting started—a dinner honoring a very solemn feminist author. I was glad I didn't have to stay for the rubber chicken and suspected Kitty had requested I attend just to punish me. Lee got some photos and I scribbled down some quotes. We parted ways around eight o'clock.

While Reed drove me home, I wrote my stories and then fell soundly asleep in the backseat.

I woke up when the car hit the first pothole in my driveway. A bright blue tarp was hanging on the side of the house like a giant shower cap that glowed in the dark.

"That looks cozy," Reed said.

"Let's just hope it's watertight."

I said good night and staggered inside. The lake in the kitchen was gone, thank heaven, and another foil-covered plate of food from Mrs. Ledbetter awaited me on the table. I peeked and found she'd made stuffed peppers, enough for two. I put half in the fridge for tomorrow.

I e-mailed my stories to my editor and listened to my answering machine while the microwave worked its magic on my dinner. Libby, Hadley, my mother, my editor, my dentist's receptionist, two hang-ups, my tax man, who reminded me that my quarterly payment was due by Monday or penalties would be imposed, and Libby again.

"Don't call back," she sang, sounding as happy as a cheerleader who'd just come home from the big game. "I'm going to bed early. Spike's fine, but you owe me a new kitchen rug and two pairs of sneakers."

I ate a stuffed pepper while I looked through the mail. Three Christmas cards, a few bills and a terse letter from the local tax collector's office just in case I didn't listen to their daily phone messages.

I opened my checkbook and discovered that my next paycheck would cover the utility bills, but only if Mrs. Ledbetter continued to feed me.

My family didn't come over on the
Mayflower,
but they caught the next bus, so to speak, and they quickly prospered. By investing in banks and railroads and safety pins, the family fortune expanded. The family expanded, too, however, and eventually so many cousins were dipping into the well that the cash began to thin out. My grandmother had amassed a nationally-renowned collection of silver, but later in life she began to secretly sell it off, teaspoon by teaspoon, to support the family in the style to which we had become accustomed.

Grandmama's years of buying couture clothing had resulted in one of the country's finest collections of exquisite designs, too, which should have gone to a museum, I suppose, but I needed something to wear now that I was employed. I took great care not to ruin any of the many Chanels, Diors and Givenchys, which were each worth tens of thousands.

I played the message on my answering machine again and listened to the sonorous voice of my tax man.

Afterward, sick at heart, I looked up Claudine Paltron's telephone number.

The Zapper Czar answered rudely and told me that Claudine was out for the evening. He gave me her cell phone number.

I caught her at a restaurant.

"Nora!" She sounded surprised. Then, "Are you calling to lecture me like Lexie?"

"If I thought I could convince you to go to the police, Claudine, I would."

"Well, you can't. And I'm switching all of my accounts out of Lexie's company, so I don't have to listen to her, either."

I considered making another pitch to change her mind, but I could hear noise in the background and knew the time wasn't right.

Instead I said, "I hear you're interested in my grandmother's Mainbocher."

Chapter 16

The next morning, Claudine sent a messenger to pick up the dress.

He also dropped off a check for the purchase price.

And the envelope of photographs I'd requested in addition to the money.

I opened the envelopes of photos and spread them out on my kitchen table. Mind you, it was not an appetizing sight. The pictures showed Claudine's unmistakably long legs wrapped around Dougie Forsythe's bare behind. Her ugly dancer's feet were instantly recognizable.

I pushed my morning coffee aside and marveled at the strong stomach of the photographer. How had he or she managed to watch the event, let alone have the presence of mind to snap such telling photographs? These photos were much more graphic than the ones taken of Tim and myself, and the similarly soft-focus pictures of Emma and Rush. Yet they had the same greeting-cardlike quality.

Libby arrived with Spike.

"This animal is not a credit to his species," she announced as he raced into the kitchen and leaped joyfully into my lap. "Do you know what kind of poop comes out when a dog eats a whole bag of marshmallows?"

"Why in the world would you give him a bag of marshmallows?"

"I didn't! They were innocently sitting on the counter, which is nearly four feet over his head, so I assumed they were safe. But he managed to levitate himself somehow and—well, you owe me for more rugs than you can imagine." She dropped her handbag on the floor and sat down at the table.

"On the other hand, Lucy wants to come live here so she can be near him. They're soulmates. Her imaginary friend has decided to cut up all the draperies with scissors. I don't have a decent window treatment left in my house. And the twins are still filming a horror movie, so they make blood out of corn syrup. It looks as if Charles Manson has been living in my basement, and it's so sticky we have ants coming out of the woodwork—in December!"

"How is Rawlins?"

Libby avoided my gaze. "We just had a horrible fight, so don't ask."

I could see she was ready to blow, so I asked a safer question. "How is the baby?"

Her lower lip began to tremble. "Beautiful. But he still doesn't have a name."

"What about your new boyfriend?"

Her nose turned pink and tears began to glisten in her eyes.

"Libby?"

"He—he wants me to—well, restrain him."

"He what?"

"I'm beginning to think he's a little peculiar, Nora."

"What kind of restraining?"

"You know. Tying him up. And Melvin's always talking about discipline. I thought he meant improving
the children's behavior, which I admit could use a little attention, maybe, but I'm starting to worry he—well, he might not be quite normal."

"Oh, for God's sake Libby! You haven't really had sex with this man, have you? He hasn't tied you up, has he?"

"No, no,
he's
the one who wants to be controlled, you see, and I'm supposed to pretend I'm the prison warden or the angry policewoman or the stagecoach driver."

"The—?"

"He gave me a pretty little buggy whip. I thought it was an antique, something I could display at Christmas with some nice holly branches and a Currier and Ives print, but—"

"Libby, I think it's time to break things off with Melvin."

"But he's so sweet!"

"Bringing you flowers and candy, that's sweet. Bringing you a whip is something entirely—"

"You can afford to say that!" she cried. "You have a man coming around, paying attention to you, wanting to sweep you into bed. But I'm this f-f-fat housewife with too many children and no hope of a fulfilling sex life again for the rest of my life! I'll be that old woman who lives in a shoe! Only my shoe is covered with corn syrup and doesn't have any curtains!"

She was blubbering then, with huge sobs heaving her Hindenberg bosom. Spike sat up in my lap and stared at her, fascinated.

I put the dog on the floor and gave Libby a hug, and brought her a cup of coffee and made soothing noises. She howled and bawled and wept until she was wrung out. Eventually, she accepted a damp cloth, which she applied to her face to cool down. When she
sat up again, she looked as beautiful as Elizabeth Taylor in her most vibrant youth.

I said, "I can't believe how amazingly gorgeous you are, Libby. And you're such a sexy, smart woman with a wonderful sense of humor."